Time's Fool (27 page)

“Not in front of the lady,” admonished Rossiter, with a reproving shake of the head. “And you should take care where you put your feet, sir.”

“He is very right y'know, m'dear Farrington,” smirked Reginald Smythe, contriving to seize and kiss Naomi's hand. “Did he step on your toe, poor fella? You shall have to wash your shoe. Or burn it,” he added,
sotto voce,
drawing a laugh from the gentlemen closing in around Naomi.

“No, but you are naughty, Reggie,” she trilled, giving his hand a playful pat.

He raised his quizzing glass and peered down at her feet. “And I suspect you also have been naughty, adored one,” he responded.

Naomi's heart gave a jolt and she knew she had turned pale. She reached out to Mr. Harrier. “Alfred!” she said, her voice unwontedly shrill. “How well you look in that luscious plum.”

“And you are simply divine, light of my life,” lisped the dandy, saluting her fingertips.

From the corner of her eye she saw Rossiter being edged from her proximity. And they all managed so well to quite ignore him. He staggered slightly as Lord Sommers pushed past. She could only pray that if he did succumb to his potations 'twould be when she was on the other side of the ballroom.

Rossiter watched the crowd gathering about her. Gradually, deliberately, she was swept away from him. He smiled grimly, and glancing to the right encountered a battery of stony stares. Assured that the view to his left would be much the same, he sauntered towards the ballroom. The crowd broke away as he approached. He felt his face grow hot as backs were turned, and he was given a wide berth.

A dowager with a very elaborate wig put up her fan and from behind it asked audibly, “Am I acquaint with that most dashing young captain?”

The stocky gentleman beside her glanced at Rossiter and said something in a low-pitched, aghast tone.

“Oh, Lud!” exclaimed the lady. “I suppose young Horatio invited the creature! 'Pon my soul, but poor Bowers-Malden has his trials with that scatter-wit heir of his!”

There was some smothered laughter. A muscle rippled in Rossiter's jaw, and he walked on, his head held high and proud. It was, he thought, going to be a long evening.

*   *   *

The quadrille ended at half past eleven, and Naomi's cheeks were tired. She'd never dreamed how difficult it was to be obliged to smile constantly, and decided that the moment she left this wretched ball she would scowl for three days. Rudolph Bracksby was among the group of beaux who greeted her return from the dance floor. The quiet gentleman's pleasant face was a welcome sight, and she was glad to grant his request to take her down to supper. There were cries of outrage at this infamy, and her admirers begged her to reconsider. At last, however, Mr. Bracksby was able to lead his lady down the stairs and conduct her to a little table against the wall. Leaning back in the chair with a stifled sigh of relief, Naomi saw Mrs. Golightly seated with a group of her cronies, among whom Sir Gilbert Fowles, all teeth and guffaw, was holding forth. With an inward moan, Naomi put up her fan and tried to be invisible. A moment later, she knew she had failed.

“Here you are, my love! I declare I feared I'd never have a word with you!” Samantha Golightly surged into the vacant chair. A tall young woman, whose large white teeth and neighing voice inspired the uncharitable to designate her “horsy,” she moved with a bouncy gait that did little to dispel the illusion. Her only claims to prettiness were manifested by a pair of snapping black eyes, and a splendid bosom. She wore an extremely décolleté pink satin gown, which concealed very little of her principal attribute, and several gentlemen watched hopefully as she leaned forward, regarding Naomi with a triumphant grin.

“Good evening,
dear
Samantha.” Naomi put on her smile once more. “Is it not a delightful party? Bowers-Malden has outdone himself. As usual.”

“Oh, indeed, indeed. Which is in despite Tio, of course. That rascal! How could he upset his papa's guests by inviting Gideon Rossiter? To say nothing of putting you in so unenviable a situation. Everyone feels so
sorry
for you, my poor sweet. 'Tis cruel,
cruel
that you should be obliged to endure the escort of such a notorious creature. And especially after your own unfortunate—ah, relationship with him was—”

“Good evening, Mrs. Golightly.” Bracksby set a plate of delicacies and a glass of iced punch before Naomi. “How kind in you to entertain my lady whilst I was gathering these tidbits.” He retrieved his own plate and glass from a hovering waiter, then stood looking rather helplessly at the small table. “Oh—pray do not get up, ma'am,” he added in his gentle voice.

Mrs. Golightly, who had shown no sign of getting up, rose at once. “Dear Mr. Bracksby. You must keep this poor child entertained, for truly she has much to bear. Never fear, Naomi. We none of us believe the nonsense about your slippers. I fancy you are wearing them tonight, in fact. No?”

“Slippers…?” echoed Naomi, staring at her with a commendably blank expression.

“Why, yes. You surely have heard that a lady's jewelled slipper fell from a bed—” She giggled, and fluttered her eyelashes with appalling coyness. “Well, from one of the
upper
rooms at the Dowling Soiree. And that everyone—but
everyone
—is casting bets on the identity of the naughty girl. Never fear, I have assured several people, dear Naomi, that although you wore jewelled slippers that evening, yours is not the one was lost.”

“Good gracious,” said Naomi. “An I had dreamed such petty gossip was abroad, I should have worn those same shoes, if only to disappoint the gabblemongers.”

Mrs. Golightly blinked, but she was not one to shy from a shadow, and said in a confiding whisper, “A very wise notion, my love. Slip away and change them. That will teach everyone a lesson!”

“Such a friend you are, dearest,” purred Naomi. “And what a pleasant selection you have made, Mr. Bracksby. I feel sure Mrs. Golightly will wish you to sit down. 'Twas lovely chatting with you, Samantha.”

His lips twitching, Mr. Bracksby seated himself. Mrs. Golightly took herself off looking triumphant, and Naomi muttered, “Cat!”

“The lady was right in one sense, however,” said Bracksby.

She shot a startled glance at him.

He shrugged. “I fear it cannot add to your consequence that poor Rossiter is your escort tonight, ma'am.”

“Oh,” said Naomi, relieved. “I fancy most people know the circumstances. Besides, Captain Rossiter is not to be blamed for his father's predicament.” And she thought, ‘Good gracious! Why should I defend the creature?'

“How like you to be so forgiving.” Admiration lit Bracksby's dark eyes. “One can scarce wonder at Gideon's dogged determination to escort you. Although I feel sure he realized he would be cut.”

Naomi frowned a little and sipped her punch. She murmured, “'Tis not a greatly successful evening for either of us.”

In a markedly deserted corner of the crowded ballroom, which everywhere else rang with talk and laughter, Rossiter had much the same thought. He had expected to be shunned, but he had found it difficult to keep his face impassive when several old friends had looked straight at him with no sign of recognition. Tio Glendenning had rushed to his side whenever he was able, but Tio was bedevilled with the numerous obligations of a host, and had time for only a few words before he was rushed away again. Bowers-Malden had been so gracious as to go out of his way to come up and chat briefly, which was good of the earl, all things considered. And when she left the reception line the countess had paused to remark kindly that Gideon looked quite “wrung out” and to urge that he sit down for a while. He yearned to follow her suggestion, but dare not. He would be less obvious were he seated, and he intended to give no one the opportunity to sneer that he was ashamed and trying to hide. Also, there was the fear that if he once sat down he might not be able to get up again, for his bruises seemed to become more stiff and painful by the minute.

One benefit of his ostracism was that it gave him time for thought, and his mind struggled to make sense of the events of this long and busy day. Someone had gone to the trouble to ambush him and then warn him off. And if someone had a reason to want him to stop his investigation, then there must be something to be concealed.

There was also the matter of Tummet's recognition of one of the bullies who had broken into and searched Promontory Point. That the thief had gone to Sir Louis Derrydene's house was both intriguing and baffling. Sir Louis was supposed to be in Russia. If he really had stayed in London, it was possible that he had some shady little business afoot and needed the services of a hired ruffian to accomplish it. Was it likely, though, that he had merely
chanced
to hire the same man who'd previously broken into the Point? ‘Pushing coincidence altogether too far,' thought Rossiter. Yet if 'twas not coincidence, if there was a connection, what was it? How could a conspiracy, planned and carried out before his own return from the army, relate to this rash of thefts all apparently having to do with some object either he or Jamie Morris had picked up in Holland? It made no sense to—

“…should not have been allowed to enter where there are decent people assembled! Are you gentlemen intimidated by a uniform?”

The nasal tones were all too familiar. Rossiter discovered that he was no longer alone. Mr. Reginald Smythe and several other gentlemen stood nearby. There were several heated declarations of a willingness to “take action.” They were a motley crew, probably pot valiant, but some other gentlemen were wandering this way, looking grim. Rossiter tensed, wondering if they would dare eject him forcibly. The other guests would probably be willing enough to look the other way, in which case this situation could become dashed ugly. He turned to face them, meeting their hostile stares haughtily.

Coming into the room on Bracksby's arm, Naomi noticed the sudden hush, and saw heads turn. She glanced curiously in the same direction. There could be no doubt of what was happening. Rossiter looked proud and defiant, but he also looked terribly alone. Instinctively, she started forward.

Bracksby caught at her hand. “'Twere best to stay clear, ma'am. They'll likely do no more than ask him to leave.”

Agitated, she said, “Reggie Smythe has hated him forever. Where is Tio, or Gordie Chandler, or Bowers-Malden?”

“Likely manoeuvred out of the way. Oh, Gad! Here's Crenshore! His father was ruined when the bank failed! Come, my lady. We must—”

But Naomi was already hurrying towards the ominous little group.

Cyril Crenshore, large, flushed, and aggressive, had stepped directly in front of Rossiter. “You've a choice, Captain,” he grated. “Leave quietly, or—”

“La, Captain Rossiter,” said Naomi, strolling up beside Bracksby. “Do you not claim your dance, I shall have no alternative but to allow Mr. Bracksby to take your place, as he begs to do.” She stood there, plying her fan gracefully, and looking both enchanting and serenely unaware of the atmosphere of barely suppressed fury.

“Take Rudi, lovely one,” said Mr. Crenshore, who adored her. “We've a matter of business to discuss with this fellow.”

Rossiter bowed, wondering why the deuce Bracksby had brought Naomi into this mess. “I relinquish my claim, ma'am.”

Naomi's eyes flashed with vexation.

Bracksby said, “Ah, but I do not care to win by default, Gideon. I feel sure that these gentlemen can chat with you at some more opportune time.”

He spoke in his usual mild tones, but Crenshore was reminded of his manners. It would be exceedingly poor
ton
to create a fuss while in this house as a guest. Scowling, he stepped back. Several of the other gentlemen exchanged glances and retreated also.

Irritated, and aware he was losing support, Smythe blustered, “You surprise me, Rudi. 'Pon rep, but y'do! I'd have said you'd be first to see the need for decent people to—”

“To remember they are gentlemen and that ladies are present?” interposed Bracksby. “Then you would be perfectly right, my dear fellow.”

Smythe flushed. “Perhaps you were not a victim of the alleged failure of Rossiter Bank, but I can assure you—”

“Perhaps,” interpolated Rossiter icily, “you would wish a private meeting to discuss the matter, Smythe.”

Naomi gritted her teeth.

Bracksby said in a low voice, “Gideon, for the love of God! Do you mean to challenge all London?”

“If need be,” snapped Rossiter.

Smythe, however, had paled. It was well known that he fought with his tongue, and the thought of an actual duel evidently appalled him.

“Come, Captain,” trilled Naomi. “You gentlemen can have your discussions whenever you please, but the orchestra will be striking up for a country dance at any second, and you know how I adore the Roger de Coverly.”

Perforce, Rossiter extended his arm, and she rested her hand on it, fluttering her fan at him, and smiling her most bewitching smile.

Reginald Smythe said with a titter, “Do you mean to change your slippers before—or after the dance, dear lady? I have it on excellent authority you have vowed to do so.”

Rossiter felt the little hand tighten on his arm and from the corner of his eye saw that Naomi had lost all her colour. He said lightly, “Now there is a most excellent notion, ma'am.” Green eyes, wide and shocked, flashed to him. He shrugged. “'Tis the only kind thing to do, you will allow. The poor gabble merchants have nought to sustain 'em but gossip. You must put them out of their misery. Come, my lady. I will gladly escort you to Falcon House.”

Accompanying him from the room, horribly conscious of the countless stares that followed them, Naomi was thinking numbly that this was how a gladiator must have felt who had rescued a Christian from the lions, only to be thrown into the arena in his stead!